


5. Unbreakable

by Iolre



Series: 100 Themes Challenge [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, Drabble, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock dealing with John’s nightmares and the guilt he feels at hurting someone he cares about. Post-Reichenbach, close to six months after Sherlock has returned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5. Unbreakable

Sherlock ghosted through the door to 221B Baker Street and up to the flat. It was late, probably 3am. John was likely asleep, like a normal person, and Sherlock didn’t want to wake him. Having made his way to the living room, Sherlock removed his coat and scarf and hung them up. The flat was quiet, something Sherlock enjoyed.

It still felt strange some days to enter the flat. He had been back in London with John for six months now . Sherlock was forever surprised how quickly John had forgiven him. The first few months had been rough. Sherlock had felt quite a bit of an emotion he had hoped to never feel - guilt. Sleeping in the room downstairs and being woken up by John’s high-pitched screaming was an experience he hoped to never repeat. Sherlock shoved the thoughts out of his mind. They were thoughts his mind brought up only when there was nothing better to focus on. Not that John wasn’t something enjoyable to focus on, however. John was his blogger, his companion, his - not going there. Two minutes was his limit for emotional thoughts and that had passed thirty seconds ago.

Sherlock froze mid-step, about to head upstairs. There was high-pitched whimpering coming from John’s room. Recognizing it as the prelude to many of John’s tormented nightmares, Sherlock took a chance and darted up the stairs. If he woke John up now, hopefully he wouldn’t scream quite as loudly as he usually did.

He made it to the top of the stairs before the screaming began. Sherlock’s hand froze on the door handle. There were words this time, words interspersed with the screams. Slowly the more rational part of his brain forced him to open the door. Sherlock was frozen, unable to move out from between the frame of the door.

John was tossing back and forth, his limbs thrashing about. “No,” he moaned, a pillow slipping onto the floor. Sherlock was fixated on his rapidly moving form, transfixed and for not the first time in his life uncertain of what to do. How could he make it better? “Sherlock...” Sherlock jolted back at the sound of John’s voice saying his name, nearly slipping on the top of the stairs. “Please, God, let him live...” John was sobbing and screaming intermittently in his sleep now, the thrashing worse than it was.

Sherlock was able to force himself a few steps forward. He wanted to do something. Anything. Anything was better than standing and watching John sob like his heart had been ripped out of his chest. “John,” he said softly, uncertain of what to do.

“God, no...Sherlock, you can’t leave me.” Sherlock took another step forward. Worry was not an emotion he had been experienced with until John. Until now. “Sherlock, I love you...you can’t leave me.” Sherlock froze, his eyes widening until he was certain there was no more room on his face. A crash and John’s cry of pain pulled him out of the reverie he was in and Sherlock felt himself gravitating to John’s side.

“John?” Sherlock asked, his voice showing far too much emotion for his comfort. He didn’t know what to do. He was rubbish at these things, these pesky, pesky emotions. All he knew was that John was hurting and that he needed to do something about it. That - that John loved him, whatever that meant. He would think about that later.

“Mm, Sherlock?” John was rubbing his eye with his hand, groggy but awake. The crash had been John falling off of his bed and hitting the floor. John had pushed himself up enough to see that Sherlock was crouched down next to him. Blinking a few times, the sandy-blonde haired man peered blearily at the taller man. Then he frowned. “How did I get on the floor?” He rocked backwards, moving to sit cross-legged.

“You fell,” Sherlock said, trying to cope with what had happened. While he was relieved that John was okay (which was, of course, the only logical response), Sherlock was not pleased with the way his body had reacted to John’s cry of pain. His heart was thumping abnormally fast and he felt a bit short of breath. He also had the irrational desire to hug his friend. He cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”

“Hmm, yeah.” John reached out a hand to grasp Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing himself into a standing position. He frowned as he noticed the state of his bed, and then realized what had happened. Scratching the back of his head, he paused, trying to think of how to ask Sherlock why he was there without seeming too obvious.

“Good.” Sherlock’s voice seemed a bit hesitant, even to Sherlock himself. John looked up at him, surprised. Unable to help himself, Sherlock reached out and wrapped his arms firmly around the shorter man, holding him in a grip that John found a bit painful.

“Erm, Sherlock, that hurts,” John said, surprised but pleasantly so. He wrapped his own arms around Sherlock in return, breathing in his friend’s scent. Sherlock was warm, delightfully so, and he felt solid and comfortable in John’s grasp.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmured into his hair. He lessened his grasp just a bit. He was sorry. He was sorry for so many things, even things John may never know. He was sorry for leaving him. For not being there when he needed him. For not comforting him when he was sad. For not realizing that he cared for him sooner, not realizing that he needed this man. Sherlock would spend the rest of his life, in his mind, making up for all the things he had done wrong. Until he forgot, of course. Then he would come to his senses and be properly sorry again.

“Are you okay?” John pulled back a bit, bleary eyed. His pyjamas were a bit sweaty from the nightmares and the thrashing. “I’d like to change, and probably need to change the sheets.” He looked at the bed with some minor distaste.

“Of course.” Sherlock forced a smile. “Wait here.” Leaving a shocked half-awake John at the top of the stairs, Sherlock walked down to the linens cabinet Mrs. Hudson kept and retrieved a clean set of sheets for John’s bed. He walked back upstairs and stood in the doorway, a slight frown on his face. He knew where to get the sheets, but he had deleted how to make a bed from his memory. John had already changed into new pyjamas, he noted with interest.

Warm, gentle hands took the sheets from him and sat them on the dresser. John quietly stripped the sheets from his bed and handed them to Sherlock, who walked them downstairs to the laundry. When he got back upstairs, John had made his bed and was sitting on it. Sherlock stood in the door frame awkwardly, not sure what to say. He was certain John had no idea what he had said while he was asleep, and probably assumed it was similar to his previous nightmares.

“I can stay with you until you sleep,” Sherlock said, cutting John off when he opened his mouth. John closed his mouth, watching Sherlock thoughtfully, his eyes frustratingly unreadable. John simply nodded and laid down on the bed. Sherlock watched him for a moment before settling down on a chair next to the bed. He watched as John extended a hand out to him, and hesitated only briefly before extending his own. Their hands twined well together, almost as if they were made to do so. Daring, Sherlock reached down and briefly touched his forehead to John’s, his eyes closed, trying to communicate how very sorry he was. John almost never had nightmares anymore, and when he did, it was when Sherlock got home later than he was supposed to.

“G’night,” John mumbled sleepily, caressing Sherlock’s hand with his thumb, half asleep already. Sherlock merely smiled, watching him as he drifted off to sleep. Watching his breathing settle and become more even, he leaned over and kissed the sandy-haired man gingerly on his forehead, unlocking their hands as he did so. Silently he turned around and walked down to his couch. He had a lot to think about. He needed a plan.


End file.
